Because Hell Is Empty
by The Wistful Bloom
Summary: It was, undoubtedly, one of the things life could not prepare you for. And unfortunately, the realisation that these horrors were real only magnified the terror. The problem was, mainly, that these were not singular incidents. And maybe- just perhaps- that none of them seemed to understand the scale of anything at all. [AU]
1. Flowers On The Grave

**omfg i'm back go hide under your beds or something wow okay hi again guys i'd explain my break or whatever but basically i was lazy and school and now i'm back so nothing else matters does it okay**

**first few chapters of this may be a little faster than my usual updates, but idk don't expect that to last long i'm still lazy as hell**

**warnings for: [minor] character death, one gender bend, violence, mental disorders, dark themes and language some may consider offensive (oh and homoerotic subtext but that's a given in my stories )**

* * *

Thick shafts of moonlight were streaming in through the window, leaving the far side of the room in darkness. The clink of silver coins, however soft a sound, acted like hushed reassurance. Comforting in the late-night glow.

The man seated at his desk looked pleased with the money spread out before him, coins stacked and spaced out with precision.

Money was comfort. Money could buy things that no amount of pleading or wishful thinking could afford. However, the blonde quickly found that no amount of money could take away the sudden chill of hearing the heavy click from across the room. Squinting towards the darkness, the Swiss man stood, his fingertips gingerly placed on the desk. He didn't speak, didn't move, for fear came with the familiar sound of a cocked gun and he was paralysed on the spot.

Slowly, the figure came forwards, so that Vash could see the deathly gleam of the barrel and the tanned finger gripping the trigger.

"You've become rather impertinent as of late, haven't you?" The blonde sneered, and the voice answered back.

"Dead men encourage questions."

Vash pretended to look somewhat taken aback, "I... I don't know what you're-"

"-Talking about?" The gunman chuckled. "_Mentiroso._"

The last word was in the shrouded man's own language, but the blonde understood well enough. He was being branded a liar.

There was a pause, air thick, and there was a shuffle as the man delved a hand into his pocket. This wasn't even vaguely interesting to the Swiss, as his widened eyes were transfixed to the gun still pointed at him, wavering slightly as the man dug around his pocket. He produced a piece of paper, torn messily from a newspaper, and keeping himself in relative darkness the gunman placed it onto the blonde's desk.

Vash sat, throat dry and his back tingling, and he dragged the paper towards himself. He tried to look like he was reading the paper, yet his eyes flickered upwards in fear of the gun pointed at him. He looked up and squinted at the darkness, gently pushing the paper away from himself. "I can't read it." The finger stiffened around the trigger, and Vash's throat pulsated. "I don't speak Italian. Or read it, for that matter." There was a sneer from the gunman.

"Then what the hell are you doing in Italy, Zwingli?"

The blonde felt the corner of his mouth twitch, and he responded bitterly, "I could always ask you the same thing."

The gun wavered, and there was a small pause, his finger tapping the trigger lightly. Out of habit, perhaps.

"Business."

The answer was short, his accent heavy, and Vash almost let a smile slide from his tight lips.

Of course he called it _business_. He didn't wear a nice suit or act in any way negotiable, but the gunman called it business.

"I don't want you to read the entire obituary," he said, "just the name."

Vash let his eyes waver down to the piece of paper again. Any words were caught in his throat, and he stuttered over a few syllables as he looked back up at the gunman. "A... Are you serious?" The blonde looked down at the obituary again, the printed name making him nauseous.

"I'm _very_ serious." Stepping out of the shadows, the gunman narrowed his eyes, corner of his mouth curled. "Why is he dead, Zwingli?"

Vash was genuinely lost for words, and the gun still pointed at him made him cautious to even blink, his eyes watering from the strain. The Swiss man looked down at the table again helplessly, his hands shaking, his movements tense.

"_I can't help you._ I know absolutely _nothing_ about this. I wasn't involved. Believe me, I wasn't. I'm sorry, bu-"

As he had risen his head to face the gunman, Vash found himself trapped in a fear-driven state of paralysis. His heart was pounding and his eyes could only dart from side to side. There was cold pressure against his head, and he found it hard to even breathe as he felt the gunman's breath against his ear, the words sending terrified shivers down the base of his neck to his spine.

He hadn't heard him move.

"You've got connections all over the world. You must have been involved, somehow. Some transaction last month, a meeting here, an investment there..."

The blonde swallowed thickly, running his tongue along his bottom lip, his pulse and nerves racing uncontrollably. "Honestly, Zwingli? After all he's done to you?" He pressed the gun hard against the blonde's cheek, and Vash winced. The gunman's voice was low and ached of disbelief. "You want me to believe you had no part in this?"

"You're asking the wrong person, Ca-"

Before he could utter the gunman's name, the weapon was pressed harder against his temple, in warning. The gunman chuckled, low and threatening.

"It would seem that you were a waste of time too, wouldn't it?"

Vash flicked his tongue over his bottom lip again, every word echoing closely to his ear: sending his heart racing with fear.

Facing facts and suppressing a mutter of complaint against his lips at his apparent bad luck, the gunman smirked against the businessman's ear, the blonde flinching ever so slightly. He blew into his ear, and after another chuckle at the uncomfortable roll of his shoulders he muttered softly, "Shame."

The seated man shut his eyes, sensing the worst as the side of the gun came crashing down: smashing into his head and rendering him unconscious. A bated groan left his lips, slumped over his desk with his eyes closed and his breathing slow and even. Sighing and pocketing his handgun, the gunman shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. He regarded the unconscious Swiss with harsh eyes, spitting at the floor in disgust for good measure, and he pocketed a handful of money from the table on his way out.

* * *

"Feli?" There wasn't a sound from downstairs as Lovino fumbled with his tie. "Feliciano?"

He tied it as best as he could, before haphazardly combing his hair through with his fingers and making his way downstairs. Once at the bottom of the stairs, the Italian turned his attention to tucking his shirt into his trousers.

"Feli, we-" Lovino stopped for a moment to check his watch, before his entire face went slack. "_Shit_. Feliciano!" He called, taking his shoes from the bottom of the stairs and tugging them on as he shuffled close to the living room's door-frame. The brunette made to warn his brother of the minutes they had left, only to stop and stare at the sight before him. His brother, bleary eyed and sobbing, was crumpled up on the couch watching a black and white film. His shirt was half unbuttoned and damp with tears at the cuffs, and his knees were drawn inwards as he sobbed.

"Feli?" Lovino's voice was soft, and stiffening slightly, his brother turned his head. "We've..." The Italian cast his gaze to the floor. He couldn't do this.

"We've got ten minutes." There was another sob, soft and broken, and Feliciano wiped his eyes with his sleeve, his attention split between the television and buttoning up his shirt.

"He used to watch this with us..." He sobbed, his wiry frame rattling gently as he wiped his eyes again, tears still streaming down his face. "Every Thursday, Lovino." He tried to smile at his older brother. "You remember, don't you?" There was a thin smile upon his lips, and he groggily got to his feet, tucking his shirt into his trousers as best he could: still sobbing gently and shaking.

Unable to deal with his brother as he was, Lovino kept himself swaying from foot to foot in the doorway, almost glad when there was a knock on the front door. "That's probably..." He trailed off as Feliciano turned back to his film, still sobbing. He turned away and went to answer the door.

Him.

Fucking hell, it just _had_ to be him.

Finding he had to crane his neck to take in the full appearance of the blonde in the doorway, Lovino found a sour expression crept over his face as he glared at the man.

"How's he taking it?"

The Italian looked away from the calculating blue eyes, turning back into the house.

"See for yourself." He muttered, and kept himself busy with finding his jacket, not exactly keen of his brother's choice of company.

It would probably help if the blonde wasn't so tall and imposing_. _Then again, little details were things Lovino didn't care for. He'd hate the guy either way, and that was that.

He paced back into the living room, ignoring the other two, and he turned his attention to the film his brother adored so much.

Glancing at Lovino for a small second, sighing, Ludwig gingerly wiped away the streaks of tears running down Feliciano's face. He managed to wrangle a small smile, and this seemed to reassure the brunette, so much that he attempted a small smile himself before he hiccuped with another sob.

Sniffling and rubbing his eyes again, the small Italian buried his head in the blonde's chest, wrapping his arms around him.

A little taken aback by the contact at first, the German sighed and patted the Italian's back.

To see someone like Feliciano in a state like this wasn't easy for any of them.

Scowling, trying (and failing) to immerse himself in the film he was watching, Lovino turned to the other two.

"Are we going yet?" He asked, somewhat agitatedly, and his brother removed himself from his friend with some reluctance.

The scowl seemed to stick. Because Lovino was angry at the fact that he had apparently been no help whatsoever to his brother so far, but Ludwig could hug him and he'd perk up in an instant. It fucking annoyed the _hell_ out of him.

He muttered a small complaint of the small amount of time they were against and how his brother wasn't completely dressed yet, and turned back to the film.

He wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible.

Nodding and sniffling more softly than he had been, Feliciano made his way out of the room, leaving a silence to hang over the room. Ludwig cleared his throat softly, adjusting his tie. "I know this is hard for you, but-"

"-But_ what?_" Lovino hissed, scowl firm and his eyes harsh. He stood, whispering angrily so his brother wouldn't hear, waving his hands. "But I shouldn't take it all out on Feliciano? I should forget anything I might be feeling because my brother is more important than I ever will be?"

The blonde cleared his throat, his lips pursed in considerate thought. Lovino swore under his breath, raking a hand through his hair again, and he hung his head.

Ludwig let out a harsh breath. "I'm sorry, Lovino. Truly."

The brunette bit his tongue, knowing that an argument was all that they needed right now. "Just keep your hands off my brother and leave me the hell alone, okay?"

The German blinked softly, his eyes as calculating as ever, and without another word to the brunette he stepped out of the room.

The Italian sighed, his eyes beginning to water, and as his vision fogged he wiped his eyes and swore bitterly to himself. Sighing again, he raked his fingers through his hair and bit down on his tongue again.

There was a shift, a moment of silence, and Lovino turned to see his brother's head leaning into the room.

"Fratello..? We're going now..." The younger of the two brothers wiped his eyes again, his eyes cast downwards and ringed darkly from lack of sleep.

Lovino stiffened, moving forwards to turn the television off, adjusting his cuffs as he turned back to his brother. "Okay, Feli. Okay." It was all he could offer. It was the only thing he'd been able to do since they'd received the news; agree with Feliciano and keep his distance whenever possible.

He moved, legs like lead weights as he moved out into the hall, keeping himself at least a few paces behind Ludwig and his brother as they made their way out of the house. He barely registered the wisps of wind that flickered around his face, or the dark clouds that seemed to be full of rain as he slumped into the back of Ludwig's car.

He ignored the German's cautious words regarding his seatbelt, and he didn't watch his brother as he locked the door to the house and made his way over to the car; taking the passenger seat.

Lovino simply let his head rest against the window as they lurched through Rome, the rain tapping off the glass. Animatedly built conversation passed between the two others in the car, but their words only buzzed dully in the brunette's ears.

Although he severely doubted it, Lovino hoped that he'd be left alone for the rest of the day.

* * *

He didn't know the name of the bar they'd left for to drown in their sorrows. He didn't even know what had been ordered for him, but there he sat at a table; drained and mildly tipsy.He'd been approached a few times, obviously, but his unruly hair and permanent frown must have made some impression. Not that he wanted company, anyway.

"Lovino?"

A woman was gazing softly at him, her accent hard to place, blonde hair curled loosely and pinned away from her face.

"Little Lovi." Her expression softened, as did her voice, and she smiled sweetly at him.

The Italian, however, was too exasperated to even _pretend_ to remember her. She'd probably been... _friendly _with his grandfather.

The woman looked young, perhaps in her early thirties, but the recent death and grief had aged her horribly. Her nails were chipped and bitten down, her eyes drooped and dull, tired circles underneath.

"You look just like him."

Lovino tried not to frown.

"Romulus." She added, as if he was missing her point.

Lovino disguised his disdain, necking his drink.

"He'd let me babysit when you and Feliciano were both little. You were so small." Sniffing and indicating a height just below her hip, her baby-blue eyes fell upon the brunette again. "You don't remember me, do you?"

Lovino didn't even try to lie. "Sorry." He shook his head, hands cupping his empty glass.

The woman sniffed, wringing her hands. "The news has probably upset you both more than me. I won't waste your time with my apologies or stories, Lovino, so-"

"You can stay, if you want." His interjection, although unusual, was probably the right etiquette for the situation. Lovino drew his attention to his glass again, eyes hooded as he gazed down into it.

"No, no. I'm sorry for your grandfather's death, but I shouldn't waste your time." She took a handkerchief from her coat, a dark and rather mournful number that was tailored to fit her like a glove. Dabbing her eyes, she smiled weakly at him again, before making her way over to two men standing in a rather conspicuous corner.

With his eyes following her retreating figure, Lovino quickly found his breath hitched in his throat. One of the conspicuous corner-dwellers caught his eye, staring right back at the Italian. His eyes, dull as the woman's were, ( but a piercing shade of green), seemed to know.

_What_, exactly, Lovino didn't know. But he was one hundred percent certain that the man did.

His suit was crisp, brown hair framing his face with strands of it tucked behind one ear. Weakly smiling at Lovino, the man forgot the conversation ongoing with his two friends, raising his glass. Raising it at the young brunette, he took a sip, and mouthed a single word. Lovino furrowed his brow, especially at the painful expression on the man's face.

'_Sorry.'_

Lovino frowned.

_**Sorry**__?_

He'd heard that all day. From just about everybody. And lip-reading it from a tall, tanned stranger who was standing in a dark corner of the bar shouldn't have made the sentiment any different. But for some reason, to Lovino, it did.

"Do you want another drink?"

Lovino stiffened at the German accent, and he turned to face Ludwig, nudging his glass over. He caught the blonde's arm before he left, and he motioned him closer. Ludwig's eyes were cautious, and Lovino didn't really blame him. It wasn't often that Lovino wanted to speak to him.

"You know any of those three over there?" Voice hushed, Lovino tilted his head in the direction of the blonde woman and two men in the corner. Ludwig leant forwards slightly, scanning over the three of them, and he shook his head at the brunette.

"Not a clue." His lips twisted in what the Italian understood to be apology. He took Lovino's glass, moving away, and the brunette propped his chin up with the palm of one hand. He looked down at the table and huffed.

Across the room he could see his brother, smiling for the first time in weeks, sipping from a glass of something alcoholic and chatting with someone Lovino only knew from pictures. An uncle or distant cousin, probably, someone that Lovino didn't really care for.

Just seeing Feliciano smiling made him a little angry.

He'd not shouted or grumbled about him being a living wreck, or tried to make things any harder- if anything he'd tried to help- but these people were better than he was.

His own _brother_, going through exactly the same thing, and he'd just been expected to stay strong.

Sure, their grandfather hadn't really made an effort with Lovino, but he was family and he meant something to Feli, so didn't Lovino have a _right _to be sad?

But if he'd been the one found curled up on the couch watching a stupid black-and-white film, sobbing his heart out, then it'd be his own fault.

Lovino made a sour face and raked his hair away from his eyes. He needed another drink.

* * *

"Nice seeing you."

Lovino had a silly little drunk smile on his face as he shook her hand. He had absolutely no idea who she was, but she'd been at the funeral, and at the bar afterwards, and he'd had that much to drink that he would have said the same to absolutely anyone.

He watched her cross the street, and he forgot to recoil and smack Feliciano's hand away when it was placed on his shoulder. He was too drunk to remember something like that.

"Fratello?" Lovino turned to face him a little, but his eyes were wandering. "Fratello," he tried again, voice soft.

He exhaled slowly, looking at his feet. "Ludwig said he'd call for a cab."

At that, Lovino seemed to remember again, shrugging off the hand and the disheartened look on his brother's face. He began down the street, jacket cast over one shoulder and his legs betraying him.

He could hear Feliciano catching up behind him.

Wobbly and a little light-headed, Lovino tried to ignore him.

It was selfish, really.

Considering the funeral and how terrible it had been to see his brother all cut up about it, a little wreck on the sofa. But he didn't really care right now. He didn't even care if he was walking in the right direction, or if he'd even be able to walk at all in the next few minutes.

He'd had too much to drink, but was too drunk to really regret it.

The footsteps quickened, loose sounds that Lovino could barely hear as he continued down the street. He didn't care.

He heard his brother calling him again, the fragility caught in his voice. He didn't care.

But then he heard it again, a quick and painful 'Lovino!', along with a scuffle and a cry of pain that sent a chill down his back.

He stopped still.

For what must have been the first time, he felt the cold air on his face, and the heat in his cheeks from the wine. And it terrified him.

He turned back, clouded eyes looking for Feliciano. He could barely see, but through his dizzy vision he thought he could make out shadowed figures.

"Feli?"

His voice cracked. It wasn't fair.

He'd had to deal with the death, the crying, the funeral, and now fucking _this_.

The street was far too quiet, aside from the opening of a car door and muffled voices. It was eerie. Horrible. He felt like he was being watched, and he tried to ignore his heart as it thumped and tried to jump up his throat.

He tried calling again, about to head back to the bar, when he felt sudden pressure on his mouth.

Shit.

His eyes widened as he thrashed about, something covering his mouth and nose, something flush against his back. He could hear voices as his eyes began to water, trying to thrash against whatever or whoever was holding him in place.

His hands grabbed and tugged at what he took to be arms, but they wouldn't budge.

Lovino was trying, but each tug or attempt to break free felt more and more desperate. From what he could still keep track of, he was being dragged down the street, feet failing to keep up and arms forgetting to fight it off at the same time.

His eyes drooped, fingers digging into the hand holding the cloth against his face, before the last of the fight drained out of him.

He was dragged unceremoniously into a nearby car, tipped over the edge into unconsciousness, eyes shut and body lifeless.

The driver winced as one of the rear doors shut, fingers tapping against the steering wheel. It had all gone to plan, but they were all on edge. It was obvious. From the way her eyes darted left to right and how hard she was biting her lip, and the near-silent apologies being spoken in the back of the car.

The passenger door slammed shut, and she glanced over at him, his face pale and his jaw set. He glanced exasperatedly at her, eyes dark with guilt.

He gestured blankly with one hand. "Fucking drive."

Eyes set on the road ahead, she started the ignition and didn't say a word in reply.


	2. Lumps Of Sugar

**uhh yes hello gosh it's been a while and this chapter is sucky and short (much shorter than the last!) but hey i wanted to get something oUT THERE because i have been very lazy and not here and gosh i'm gonna shut up now ok kisses (also there is a poll about future works on my profile! a vote would be appreciated!) also lazily genderbent france idk why i thought this was a gr8 idea like ten billion months ago when i was first writing this?1!?/ (ALSO I AM NOT REALLY ACTIVELY IN THE HETALIA FANDOM ANYMORE UGH SHRUGS) okay the idiot has spoken. peace out.**

* * *

The rain still hadn't let up. It lashed against the window and was the reason a ceramic pot was sitting on the coffee table, rain dripping down into it every now and again. Damn place was falling apart.

And the only sound was when the woman sitting on the couch shivered and swore under her breath.

She put out her cigarette and reached out for another, legs sprawled out in front of her. She was still wearing yesterday's stockings, pulled up to her thighs, blouse too large for her and her hair disheveled.

If she'd looked bad before, this was hardly an improvement.

Her eyes, blue and damp from crying, were half-lidded and watched the rain beat against the window. There was little else she could do.

The drags she took were quick and hurried, so fast that she'd given herself little time to breathe, and out of forced habit she stubbed it out in the ashtray, shivering again.

Even though it had gone to plan, the three of them were unsettled.

The trouble was things were only going to go downhill from here.

"Still sobbing, Frenchie?"

She pulled out another cigarette from the pack, struggling to light it. She turned around to face the white-haired man in the doorway, cigarette perched between her lips.

His hair was messy, eyes struggling to focus. But he was as arrogant as ever.

"Fuck off." She managed to spit out around it, holding her cigarette between her fingers to light it better.

"Still as dainty as ever, I see."

She turned away, watching the window with little interest. She slouched, legs still sprawled out like she had little use for them.

"Je m'en fous!" She called back to him, even though she could hear him climbing the stairs. Frowning, twirling the ends of her hair, she placed her cigarette back in her mouth.

Her eyes slid back to watching the window, breaths coming out in long sighs, and the ceramic pot on the table continued to splash with droplets of water as they fell.

* * *

It wasn't raining in England.

Rather, it was trapped in a gloomy mid-morning fog that ate away at your lungs and peripheral sight.

It didn't look any better from inside, but at least inside there was no need to hack up your lungs. Inside also seemed a good enough place to curse the early morning while nursing a cup of herbal tea, so it was a good enough balance.

In his cup was something floral and weak that had too much sugar and made his lips curl, but it had helped to take his mind away from the itchy feeling behind his eyes that came with little sleep. He'd forgotten his paper, too, so the only thing he could to was sip from his tea with the appropriate frown to follow, and wait.

There was only him and the girl at the counter; a pretty girl with long ash-blonde hair and a frown to rival his own. She hummed to herself as she arranged packets of biscuits and cake displays. She was, Arthur found, quite the conversationalist- but being new to English meant that she still had a thick Belarussian accent, and he was too tired to try picking her sentences apart.

His eyes burned a little, struggling to keep open, but then again with barely half an hour of sleep and plans to meet at this ungodly hour, he had expected little else.

"How soon?"

From behind her little counter, Natalya stopped humming, and she gave Arthur a bemused smile.

"Soon now." She said, her voice husky and thick with her heavy accent. "Transport troubles, he tell me."

Even with her solemn face and half-lidded eyes, Natalya seemed vaguely wistful and, in the loosest sense of the term, a subdued take on bubbly. He didn't know what kind of things people were trying with naïve foreigners, but he had a vague idea and that was enough.

He managed at least another sip of tea before he felt the need to gag, and then to illustrate his distaste he set it down on its saucer and slid it across the table.

Little things began to irk him, a crease in his shirt, the rushed knotting in his tie, a blotch of jam on his collar, and he only blamed the early rise. It didn't stop him from licking his thumb and rubbing at the little pink mark, though.

Just then, twenty three minutes late and counting, the little bell on the door sounded, and the bite of the fog outside crept in.

Arthur noticed this, although still caught up in trying to look more presentable, and only looked up once the seat opposite him had been taken.

"Jones."

Arthur shook the offered hand, politely smiling even though the hand in question was terribly cold. "Kirkland."

Jones perked up considerably, beaming, obscenely glassy-bright at this time in the morning. Arthur hated him already.

Natalya was standing over them in an instant, and she let Jones have a little sultry smile, glossy with lipstick.

"You have drink now, yes? You too, Arthur." She collected Arthur's cup and saucer, still smiling politely at the two of them.

"Coffee would be great." Jones grinned, and Arthur just nodded along with him.

Anything but the hippy-floral-tea she usually gives him. Another mouthful and he'd be sick.

Just as slyly and smoothly as she appeared, Natalya ebbed away back behind her counter, throwing quick glances over the newcomer whenever she could. Arthur tried to ignore it, because it was typical, really, of her to do this.

"How was your flight?" He asked, Jones flustering and trying to blink away the sleep before he responded.

"Pretty darn good. Slept like a baby for most of it." He rubbed at his eyes and yawned.

"Well enough for tomorrow, then?"

Jones frowned. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Arthur considered, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. "I probably wouldn't fare well after two flights."

He spared a thought for Natalya, wondering if she'd bothered to spare the kid any important details.

Jones shook his head, confused.

"Am I missing something here?"

Arthur sighed, dismissively glaring at the girl as she brought their drinks over, smiling politely. Once she was out of earshot, not that it mattered, he leant in a little.

"You still want the job, don't you?"

The American nodded slowly, about to inquire again when Arthur cut him off.

"Italy, first thing in the morning."

"Tomorrow morning?" He spluttered, eyebrows raised. It was probably a good thing he hadn't started his drink.

"I was under the impression that Natalya had brought you up to speed on everything." He sipped his drink, watching the American as he tried to regain his composure again.

"If your face is anything to go by," he said, almost smiling, "I'd say we've got a fair bit of talking to do."

* * *

"Oh, come off it. They're fine."

Ignoring this, the Spaniard continued to dab the boy's face with a wet cloth. His brow was furrowed with worry, and he had an inkling that the man in the doorway was enjoying his apparent concern. Figured, the cold bastard.

"Seriously, you can knock a guy out and not bother to count how many bones you broke, but you're busting your balls over slipping two kids some fairy dust."

The man in the doorway laughed briskly, shaking his head at the brunette.

Antonio turned to face him, sending him a sour look. He didn't have the energy for this.

The man in the doorway relented, folding his arms.

"You're less fun than Frenchie." He scoffed, leering at the Spaniard for a moment before he loudly made his way downstairs.

Antonio could hear his voice, discorded, and then a small exchange between him and the French woman, unable to discern which of them was more vulgar.

He looked back at the boys, sighing. He'd really fucked this up. He was almost completely certain.

Out of habit, (a habit that had, undoubtedly, not been succumbed to in years), he brushed Lovino's hair away from his face, gingerly stroking his cheek.

He leant in close, fingers gripped around his wrist to check for a pulse, glad to see him breathing faintly.

He was so sorry that they'd been reunited like this.

Lovino probably wouldn't even remember him, being so young at the time. Feliciano, too.

"Yeah?! Well _fuck you too_!"

Something smashed from downstairs, followed by foreign shouting.

Although Antonio didn't know French all that well, he'd wager that it wasn't something that could be repeated in polite conversation.

Glumly accepting that the boys were asleep and beyond his reach, at least for now, he got to his feet. He spared them a customary glance as he left, taking the stairs two at a time. He wasn't looking forwards to whatever was waiting for him at the bottom.

As he wheeled into the meagre excuse for a living room, he narrowly missed a flying glass, which thwacked into the wall and shattered close to his feet.

"What the hell are you both doing?!"

Francis was glowering, cheeks red, hair distressed, still half-dressed in her funeral garb.

"I am not playing your games," she hissed at Gilbert, sticking another cigarette between her lips, "filthy pig."

She fumbled around for her lighter, and Antonio had pooled the glass shards into a pile, as neatly as he could.

This was all they needed right now.

Gilbert flopped himself down onto the ugly leather sofa, the cushions worn and saggy.

"Hey, frenchie," he called, tilting his head to see her.

She rolled her eyes at him.

"Seriously, I wanna ask you something."

She gave him her attention, exhaling smoke. Her eyes were still dangerously narrowed.

"I don't want to hear it." She said, scoffing at him.

He grumbled and flopped around on the sofa, as if he was eventually going to get comfortable.

"Can I at least bum a cig?" He asked, peering back at her.

She relented, flicking one over at him, and moved over to him to light it.

Antonio's head met with the wall, white spots dancing behind his eyes.

His head was heavy.

This was getting out of hand. And the worst thing was that they'd barely even begun.

* * *

Jones had a horrible taste in his mouth, was beginning to sweat, and had woken up for what must have been the third or fourth time that night.

It wasn't so much that he felt awkward or uncomfortable- because Kirkland had been more than hospitable- but there was a small patch of anxiety that was at the forefront of his mind.

In a few hours he was going to be on a proper job. In Italy. The furthest he'd been away from home.

Hell, he hadn't even been as far as England before.

Groggy, struggling to pick his feet up, Jones stumbled into the bathroom, flicking the light-switch and leaning over the sink.

He splashed his face with cold water, cupping mouthfuls of it in his hand that mostly missed his mouth, trying to calm himself down.

He felt tired and sickly and nervous and excited all at once and he didn't exactly understand how.

He patted his face dry with a towel, inspecting his reflection, poking and prodding at his gaunt cheeks and dark-circled eyes.

He was twenty-something, fresh faced and ready for action, and yet in the mirror he saw a lifeless zombie-like entity.

He blamed the long journey.

He wiped his hands over his face, yawning loudly, and shuffled back down the hallway into his residence for the night.

It was only a mattress and some thin blankets, but he was so exhausted that he found himself almost immediately dropping back off to sleep.

Morning came all too quickly.

There were slithers of sunlight peeking through the blinds, but they were faint and the room still looked murky.

He wanted to wash his face again.

His head felt heavy, as did his eyes, and he spent a good while sitting with the blankets pooled around his waist, watching the motes of dust swirl in the fractions of light.

Perhaps he'd made a mistake in coming here.

Perhaps he hadn't.

Jones didn't really know right then, as much as he hated to admit it, and he was nervous.

There was something small plaguing him, making him reconsider and take whatever he'd thought back in spite of himself, only to take that back as well and start the doubting all over again.

If he had any sort of love for liquor, he thought, he'd be necking bottles here there and everywhere. Something to settle his nerves and his racing thoughts.

He was being stupid.

He scrubbed his hands over his face, rubbing at his eyes, and yawned loudly.

This was going to be a long day.


End file.
